Philippe's Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day
by Tam Lynne
Summary: Poor, neglected Philippe de Chagny on the day of the fateful performance of Don Juan triumphant . . .
1. Brotherly Love

Disclaimer: None of the characters, of course, belong to me.  But Philippe should, because nobody else cares about him.  Most of them belong to Gaston Leroux; Grandmother Euphrasie and Grandfather Marius belong to Victor Hugo, though.  Am I the only one who's noticed the uncanny resemblance between Marius and Raoul?

Warning: Blurs the lines between the musical and the novel; purists beware.  Also, I have no choice but to subscribe to the Raoul-as-a-fop stereotype, because otherwise it just wouldn't be interesting.

Philippe's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

            The day started out bad from the minute Philippe, Comte de Chagny, got out of bed to find that there were no clothes in his closet.

            Of course, he knew exactly who to blame for _that_.

            "Raoul!" he shouted, stomping over to the door of his suite and sticking his head out.  "Raoul, get over here!"

            His brother Raoul did not appear.  Instead, a fluttery servant girl flitted over and said, in a timid voice, "Scuze me, sir, but the -"  She paused for a moment to sigh longingly.  "The Vicomte de Chagny is out shopping.  He left you this note . . ."

            Philippe growled.   Then he blinked and took another look at the servant girl, who seemed a little more fluttery than usual.  "Marie – what are you wearing?"

            The girl jiggled uneasily in her dress, made of dozens of red scarves sewn together.  "The -"  Another longing sigh.  "Vicomte ordered us all new uniforms, sir."

            "Of course."  Philippe shook his head in disgust, then retreated back into his room and slammed the door. 

            He'd hoped sending Raoul off to be a sailor might cure him of his fixation with altering everything in their ancestral home to fit the latest Martha Stewart catalog.  The two of them had always got along well in the past.  However, six months at sea had only seemed to intensify Raoul's craving to make everything he saw fluffy and pretty, and his loving brother Philippe was rapidly being sent off the deep end.

            With a muffled curse, he ripped the note out of its flower-decorated envelope and peered at the paper inside.  The scent of lilacs wafted out.  

            Dearest Brother,

            I have noticed since returning from my expedition that your wardrobe is simply abominable.  As a result, I've taken the liberty of throwing out all your old clothes; there are some new outfits, at the height of fashion, in my wardrobe, which you can feel free to borrow while I buy you some new ones.  Preferably with bunny rabbits on them.

            Raoul..

            Philippe cursed again.  Raoul had obviously forgotten that his brother was two feet taller than he was.  Marching out again, he roared at the top of his lungs, "All right, which of you helped my idiot brother throw away all my clothing?"

            Three maids, all dressed in fluttery red scarves, tentatively raised their hands.

            "And," said Philippe, trying to sound patient and not particularly succeeding, "what has happened to my clothing?"

            "It's in the midden, sir," volunteered the boldest of the maids.

            "Well, then," snapped Philippe, "am I expected to walk around in my woolly underwear all day?"

            The maids tittered.  The bold one spoke up again.  "The Vicomte said -"

            Philippe said a rude word.  "I don't care what the Vicomte said!  Look here, you."  He pointed to a butler who was lurking in the woodwork, trying not to be noticed.  "You've got to be about my size – go and fetch me one of your outfits, would you?"

            It was not turning out to be a good day.

            About an hour later, Philippe, dressed in a black suit that didn't quite fit and calculating the worth of all his clothes at his desk, heard his brother come back into the house.  

            "Hullo!" Raoul called cheerfully.  "Philippe, I've bought you some of the most darling outfits -"

            Philippe told himself, once again, that strangling his brother would cause more problems then it solved.  Instead, he went to stand on top of the stairs, looking as imposing as he could in the butler's uniform, and said coldly, "Raoul, did I give you permission to throw out all my clothes?"

            "It was a surprise!" said Raoul happily, apparently oblivious to the coldness.  "Here's your new clothes – oh, and Philippe, I'm sure you'll be happy to know that I've just donated twenty thousand francs to the Opera House."

            Philippe sat down very quickly on the steps.  "What?"

            "I've donated twenty thousand francs," repeated Raoul.  "They needed it to pay for their new chandelier – you know, after that whole business with -"

            "_Twenty thousand francs_?" repeated Philippe hoarsely.  

            "Philippe, I just told you -"

            "TWENTY THOUSAND FRANCS?"

            Raoul's brow furrowed.  "Well, honestly, Philippe, I know you're excited, but you needn't shout -"

            "Raoul," said Philippe, through clenched teeth, "how much money do you think we have here?"

            "Oh, I don't concern myself with the accounts, Philippe," said Raoul airily, "that's your business -"

            Philippe sat on his hands, because, if he didn't, he knew that he wouldn't be able to restrain himself from putting them very forcefully into the smiling face in front of him.  "Raoul," he said, slowly and carefully, "I had to pay the dowries of both of our sisters.  And all five aunts.  And Grandmother Euphrasie, when she decided to remarry after Grandfather Marius died.*  Not to mention the six orphaned poor relations who turned up mysteriously after I inherited the money.  And then there was the money I had to pay to that sea captain to get him to take you onboard his ship, which, believe me, was a lot – Raoul, if we pay twenty thousand francs to the Opera House, we'll be living on bread and water for the next thirty years."

            "Oh, I'm sure it can't be as bad as all that," chirruped Raoul.  

            "You are going to the managers," said Philippe, "and you are telling them that we're not donating twenty thousand francs.  Understand me?"

            "Oh, I couldn't," said Raoul, his face turning anxious.  "Not after I borrowed Firmin's dress the other night – Philippe, could you do it?  Please?"  He looked up at his brother with big, puppy-dog eyes.  "Pretty please?"

            Philippe sighed.  "All right," he growled.  "All right, I'll do it.  If only because I know if I send you, you'll just borrow another dress – and bear in mind that I'm not even asking about that, but only because I really don't want to know - and offer another thousand francs -"

            "Thank you!" said Raoul, his face wreathed in smiles.  "You're the best big brother ever, Philippe!"

            Philippe sighed.  This was not at all turning out to be a good day.


	2. A Bad Day Gets Abruptly Worse

Disclaimer: Once again, I don't own anything.  Except Meg's diary.  By the way, an apology for that bit of shameless self-promotion, but it was just too good an opportunity to pass up . . .

            Another hour passed, and Philippe found himself wandering around the back rooms of the Opera House, looking in vain for the managers.  This was a problem, as he had no idea what the new managers looked like.

            "Excuse me?"  He tapped the nearest person on the shoulder, a harmless-looking middle-aged woman dressed in black.  "Would you mind telling me -"

            The harmless-looking woman whirled around, her eyes flashing.  Suddenly, she didn't look so harmless anymore.  "Beware, monsieur!" she cried.  "The Angel sees; the Angel knows!"

            Philippe blinked.  "Excuse me, Madame?"

            "The Angel!" repeated the woman, sounding slightly vexed.  "As in, the Angel of Music – the Opera Ghost – the Phantom of the Opera -"

            Philippe suppressed a sigh.  The Opera had to employ hundreds of people, and he just had to pick the crazy one.  "Sorry," he said, as politely as he could, "never heard of him." 

            "Oh," said the woman, looking rather disappointed.  "My apologies, then.  Carry on."  Gathering the shreds of her dignity, she marched off down another hallway.

            "Wait!" Philippe shouted after her.  "Do you know where -"  But she was gone.

            Philippe walked on, until he saw a pair of doors that seemed vaguely familiar.  Taking his chances, he knocked on one, trusting on the de Chagny charm to get him out of trouble should it not turn out to be the correct place. 

            The door was opened by a rather pretty young girl in a ballet uniform, with bouncy curls, an aggravated expression, and a book tucked under her arm.  "Who," she demanded, "are you?"

            "I'm sorry," said Philippe apologetically.  "I'm the Comte de Chagny, and I seem to have found the wrong -"

            He didn't get to finish, though, as the pretty young girl threw the book at his head.  

            "Ow," said Philippe, picking up the book from the floor.

            "Give back my diary," said the girl snappishly.  "And if _anyone _else comes in here thinking that my dressing room is Christine's, they're going to get a lot worse than a book thrown at them.  A certain foppish Vicomte, for a start.  Oh – and, as I'm presuming you're related to the Vicomte, if you see him, would you tell him to give me back my hairbrush?"  She grabbed the book, gave him a venomous glare, and whirled around, slamming the door behind her.

            "But I wasn't looking for Chris -" began Philippe, then, seeing it was a hopeless cause, turned around again, rubbing the large bruise on his forehead.  So much for the de Chagny charm.

            He contemplated the other door for a minute, wondering if it was worth knocking on it.  The encounters he had had so far with Opera staff didn't exactly encourage further conversation; still, he did need to find the managers before they committed twenty thousand to buy a new chandelier.  Crossing his fingers, he knocked – then, seeing who emerged, cursed himself roundly.

            "Oh," said Christine glumly, "it's you."  Since it was Christine, the 'oh' went through a two-octave scale.  This was a habit that generally made Philippe want to gag her, but this time, he was desperate.

            "Look," he said wearily, "I don't like you, and you don't like me.  We've established that.  I'd like nothing better than that you go off with whatever mysterious fellow Raoul keeps babbling about and leave my brother alone for good – but, right now, if you could direct me to where the managers are, it would be much appreciated."  

            "Go through the second door on the left, pass through Carlotta's dressing room, make two rights, go up the back staircase, take another right, pass the six dressing rooms on the left, go through the music room, go down the marble staircase and it's the thirteenth door on your right," Christine said promptly.  "And never show up at my dressing room again, please.  I get into enough trouble with one de Chagny popping by at random intervals, let alone two."  The 'two' became a minor fifth, threatening to resolve into an achingly beautiful major sixth.

            "So I gathered from your violent friend next door," said Philippe hurriedly, before he really did gag her, and headed off.

            Another ten minutes found Philippe entering Carlotta's dressing room.  Philippe did know Carlotta, from the days when he was carrying on a brief affair with one of the prima ballerinas; Carlotta had always wanted to accompany them on double-dates with the tenor, Piangi, and the prima ballerina was generally too terrified of her to refuse.  It was one of the reasons the relationship had not been a success.  Philippe hoped desperately that Carlotta would not be in, but, judging by his luck so far today, did not expect much.

             He was not disappointed.

            "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!" shrieked Carlotta.  Nearby, a crystal glass exploded.  "A STRANGE MAN – oh, Comte de Chag-nee, eet ees oo."

             "Yes," said Philippe acerbically, rubbing his head with his hand.  "Eet ees – I mean, it's me.  I'm just cutting through your dressing room on my way to the manager's office, so if you'll excuse me -"

            "Ah, but Monsieur le Comte!  Oo must remain and 'ave a chat vith me!" cried Carlotta, unconsciously brandishing the shrunken head she held in her hand.  Philippe stared at it dubiously, wondering whether that was what had become of Piangi.  Carlotta saw the direction of his gaze, and tittered.  "Oh, Monsieur le Comte, do not be alarmed – I vas merely re'earsing for my role in ze revival of 'Annibal, after zis farce of a Phantom's opera 'as been played."

            "Jolly good," said Philippe drily, without the faintest idea what she was talking about.  "Look, I'd love to stay and chat with you, Carlotta, really I would, but I've got pressing business with the managers, so if you'd excuse me -"  He tried in vain to slip around her, but Carlotta planted an arm around his shoulders and gave him what was probably meant to be a charming smile.  It worked rather less well than the de Chagny charm had on the mad ballet girl earlier.  

            "Oo cannot mean to go so soon," she said, fluttering her eyelashes, and Philippe knew he was trapped.

            It was turning out to be a _terrible_ day.


	3. A Meeting with the Managers

Disclaimer: All right, I admit it – they're not mine; I stole them all.  Except Marie-Suzanne, who is communal property (and apparently never ages, either).  Shocking, isn't it?  By the way, I apologize for the mistreatment of Firmin; he's just so easy to pick on, poor dear.

            Several hours later, Philippe stumbled out of Carlotta's room, looking dazed.  Carlotta had attempted to sing every song in 'Hannibal' to him, including those written for male base and tenor voices.  It hadn't worked.  

            "Honestly," Philippe muttered to himself, "you'd think she'd have enough onstage, but no . . ."  He sighed.  It had to be late afternoon already, and the managers would be preparing for their show tonight.  He had to find them quickly, before they disappeared among the various befuddled ballet dancers, complaining chorus members and violent violinists that always accompanied a night at the Opera.  Recounting Christine's directions over to himself, he finally ended up in the correct hallway, counted thirteen doors, and knocked politely, silently praying that this was, in fact, the correct room.

            "Madame Giry, do go away, would you?" called a weary voice from inside.  "That's eleven dire warnings today, and we don't really need a twelfth -"

            "It's not Madame Giry," said Philippe, in some exasperation.  

            There was a pause.  Then a second voice said, "_Raoul_?"

            Philippe sighed.  "Not quite."  His irritation overcoming him, he couldn't resist adding, "But he does say thank you for the loan of the dress."  

            Another long and awkward pause.  Then, "I suppose you'd better come in," said the first voice stiffly.  Philippe didn't wait to be asked twice.  He affixed as polite a smile as he could manage under the circumstances onto his features, pushed open the elaborately carved door, and entered the manager's office.

            The two men inside gave him identical wan smiles.  

            "How do you do, M. Firmin, M. Andres," said Philippe, and shook both their hands, desperately hoping he'd attached the right name to the right face.  "Philippe, Comte de Chagny, Raoul's elder brother.  You remember me, I hope?"

            Firmin – or perhaps André – brightened.  "Oh, yes.  The charming gentleman who was so much attached to Mlle – now, what was her name?  The ballet dancer -"

            André – possibly Firmin – nudged his partner.  "That's hardly the most tactful thing to say, now, is it?" he muttered.

            Philippe found himself smiling.  "It doesn't matter; that's long over now," he said.  "Although, of course, I still have the most affectionate fondness for the Opera and her staff."  

            "Of course, of course," said probably-André, with a genial wave.  "Have a seat, do."

            Philippe looked around for an empty chair.  There was certainly a variety to choose from.  One was far too large – "That's the one we reserve for Carlotta," explained could-be-Firmin, seeing his gaze alight on it – and had a cushion that his arm could sink into up to his elbow.  The next was all black, and looked about as soft as an ironing board.  "Madame Giry's," said maybe-André.  Starting to feel as if he'd stumbled into the house of the Three Bears by accident, Philippe looked at the third; it was small and dainty and elegantly worked, looking so light as to be ready to fly away.

            "Don't tell me," said Philippe, "that one's Christine's?"

            "Well, yes," said one of the two – Philippe decided to give up attaching names to them.  "There are certain members of our staff whose duties bring them in here to confer with us quite often . . ."

            "Try 'practically live in here'," muttered the other.

            "So we've provided them with seating, so they needn't be looming over us all the time," continued the first, ignoring his partner with long practice.  "Otherwise, we'd never get anything done."

            Philippe looked again at his seating choices, and grimaced.  "I . . . think I'll stand, for now.  If that's all right with you."

            "As you prefer," said the one sitting nearer to him, with a shrug.  "Now, what did you want to confer with us about?"  He stopped, looking wary.  "If it's about your brother and the Daaé girl, I assure you, we'd be quite happy if the two stopped seeing each other – he upsets this Phantom fellow for some reason, which makes him rather bad for business."

            "And he ruined my second-best dress," said the other sulkily.  "Spilled red wine all over it.  Right after I'd gotten the coffee-stains that that Giry girl got on it out, too.  It's most unfair."

            "Well," said Philippe, who decided that they'd beaten around the bush quite long enough, "while I apologize about the dress incident, I would think that the incredibly large sum of money he's just gifted you with would more than make up for it."

            "Firmin!" said the one who was presumably André, looking shocked.  "You forgot to thank le Comte for his generous donation!"

            Philippe shook his head.  "Don't thank me yet," he said.  "I can't let you keep it."

            Firmin's eyes flew open wide.  "No!" he gasped, and, pulling out a check, cuddled it close to him.  "Mine!" he cried wildly.  "All mine!"

            Philippe blinked.

            "Don't mind him," said André hurriedly.  "He gets like that sometimes, poor chap.  It's the stress.  He had a traumatic childhood.  Now . . . what were you saying?"

            "I'm afraid," repeated Philippe patiently, "that I can't let you keep all the money my brother so rashly gave you.  It wasn't his to give, and while the Opera House, as always, has my full patronage, that doesn't quite extend to the shirt off my back."  He glowered in remembrance.  "Although that doesn't stop Raoul from taking that, too . . . but that's besides the point.  If you would kindly write a check giving back to the de Chagny household three quarters of the money my brother donated, I would consider it most gracious of you."

            "And if we don't?" snapped Firmin, who was still holding the check next to his heart.  "We don't take orders!"

            "Then I'm afraid," said Philippe, "I'll have to hire a lawyer.  My grandfather – you may have heard of him?  Baron Marius Pontmercy?  He was quite well-known in legal circles; his friend Courfeyrac, who miraculously survived a death at the barricades decades ago due to the kindliness of a woman named Marie-Suzanne, is still very much alive, very much respected, and very willing to represent the descendants of his dear old roommate.  So I think you'd be much better off keeping some of the money than losing all of it in a court of law."

            Firmin started frothing at the mouth. 

 Philippe got ready to dodge, but André, who was himself looking rather green, stepped neatly in front of his partner.  "Excuse me," he said, twiddling his thumbs nervously, "but did you say – Marie-Suzanne?"

"Yes," said Philippe.  "Why?"

"Oh, no!"  André shuddered.  "The woman is horrible!"

"You _know _her?"

"Know her?" said Firmin bitterly from behind André, clenching his fists so tightly he almost tore the check, at which point he gasped and gave it a kiss before continuing.  "She's lost us thousands of dollars!  She keeps coming in here trying to seduce our Opera Ghost, heaven knows why -"

"And then Miss Daaé starts throwing temper tantrums and refuses to sing -"

"And that – that _woman _always seems to think she can become the new prima donna, and tries to sing in her place!" 

André touched his hand gingerly to his ear in remembrance.  "Monsieur, it's terrible.  We've been thinking about getting a restraining order."

"Well," said Philippe callously, sensing victory, "if you don't agree to my proposal, I'll tell Uncle Courfeyrac to send Marie-Suzanne over to you – and he'll see your restraining order doesn't go through, either."

"Fine."  André sighed.  "Anything is better than . . . that.  We'll keep a third of what Raoul gave us, and give you back the rest."

            "One-quarter," said Philippe firmly.  "You've already paid off your new chandelier, and since you're losing your staff by the day, you can hardly complain that you need more money to pay their salaries."

            André winced.  "Touché." 

            "Tell your partner to write the check," continued Philippe, "and I'll trust we can continue our amicable business relations."

            Firmin growled.  Philippe dodged prudently behind Carlotta's chair.

            "If you'll just give us a moment," said André smoothly, and, turning around, propelled his partner through a door in the wall behind him.

            Half an hour later, Firmin emerged, threw a check at Philippe, then turned around and slammed the door again.

            "Good day," Philippe called out to them, then walked out the door, breathing a sigh of relief that his task was finally accomplished . . . only to walk right into the middle of a mob of ballet girls leaping down the hallway shouting something incoherent.

            "His ear . . . the fan to mow the opera?" repeated Philippe, in complete bewilderment.

            The Opera was about to begin. 


	4. In Which Humiliation Abounds

Disclaimer: No, I don't own any of them.  If I did, do you think I'd mutilate them so?   Also, I apologize for another Meg's Diary reference, but it was too perfect _not _to use . . .

Hugs and cookies to all my reviewers – without you, I rather doubt that this fic would be continuing.  You are all deities, every one.  

            After fighting his way through the army of stampeding ballerinas, Philippe's butler's uniform was in something less than pristine condition.  This was a major factor in Philippe's decision not to return home just yet – there are few things more terrifying than a disdainful butler.  After all, he was here, and he had a permanent reserved box – he might as well stay to face the music, as it were.   Besides, if he went home, he'd have to deal with Raoul – and after the day's adventures, Philippe did _not _feel up to a prolonged chat with his brother.  

            However, there was a slight problem.

            "'Ere," said the usher suspiciously.  "You're wearing a butler's uniform, you are.  With a sleeve ripped off."

            "Yes," said Philippe, trying to remain patient.  "Yes, I am.  But I am Philippe de Chagny, and I have several people to vouch for me -"  He looked around for someone who would know who he was.  In the box across the way he spied the insane ballerina who had thrown the book at him earlier.  She was eating popcorn.  "There!" he said triumphantly.  "She knows who I am.  Admittedly, she's crazy as a loon, but simple pattern recognition -"

            "Yeh," said the usher, "and she's sitting in the Ghost Box, and none of us are mad enough to try and fetch her out of there.  And she's skipping off a performance."  He glowered.  "Little Meg's just lucky she got some daft chap to fill in for her -"

            "Some daft chap?" asked Philippe, curious.  "What's her role?"

            "Nothing a chap ought to be doing," said the usher darkly.  

            Philippe blinked.  A horrible suspicion seized him.  "This chap," he said slowly, praying to all the gods he could think of at the moment that he was wildly off-track.  "Who would he be?"

            "Some posh lad," said the usher carelessly.  "He's always hanging around the Daaé girl, and she happened to know he wore the same dress size as Meg, so when she skipped off, he got pushed into the part . . ."  He squinted.  

            Philippe buried his head in his hands.  "I can't look," he said, "I can't look . . ."

            "There he is!" said the usher cheerfully.

            Philippe, unable to resist, slowly looked up.  A Gypsy dancer who looked suspiciously like Raoul de Chagny was doing an 'exotic dance' onstage, in a minimum of clothing, and female clothing at that.  All the female performers looked about to collapse from happiness.  The rather overweight Don Juan just looked like he was about to collapse. 

            "Now, this I call entertainment," said the usher in satisfaction, pulling out a popcorn box of his own.  Then he stopped, remembering Philippe's presence.  "Here, you – you've still not showed me you've any right to be in here -"

            "Never mind," said Philippe.  "I have to go rescue my brother."  

            "That's your _brother_?" said the usher, and began to guffaw.

            "Thank you for your sympathy," said Philippe, through clenched teeth, and started to run.

            He found himself backstage just as Raoul left the scene, to triumphant applause.  "Oh!" said his brother, in guilty surprise.  "Philippe!  What a pleasant -"

            "What," growled Philippe, all patience used up, "the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

            "I wear the same dress size as Meg, and she skipped off the show because the Phantom stole her dress," explained Raoul, as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world.  "Some disembodied voice told me to take the part – said it would make Christine smile, and she always looks so depressed these days."

Philippe glowered.  

Raoul wilted.  "I just wanted to cheer her up," he said mournfully.  "Is that a crime?  To love my girlfriend so much that I'll sacrifice all human dignity for her?"

"You sacrificed all human dignity a long time ago," said Philippe, with a sigh.  "Raoul -"

"Excuse me," said a cultured voice, from a few steps away.  "Monsieur?  I could use a little help -"

Philippe turned around and blinked.  A man all in black, wearing a face mask, was standing in the shadows a few steps away.  He was currently straining under the weight of an unconscious Don Juan.

"Good lord," said Philippe.

"I think Piangi had a heart attack after that little fool started doing the Macarena," said the man in the mask.  "And I have to admit that although I might be strong, my arms aren't quite up to supporting him for this long -"

"It was in the script!" protested Raoul, as Philippe hurried over to grab the unconscious tenor's feet.  Then his eyes widened.  "Hey – you're the Phantom of the Opera!  We put police at the doors to look for you!"

"Obviously, you twit," said the man in the mask, breathing a little easier. 

"Wait -" said Raoul, excitedly.  "And – and aren't you the same person who told me to take Meg's part!"  

"Yes," said the man in the mask wearily.  "Yes, I did.  Honestly, you'd think after all this you'd recognize my voice when you heard it, but no . . . Where should we put him?"

"Perhaps over on the bed?" suggested Philippe. "Raoul, don't go _anywhere_ until I have a chance to talk with you."

"An excellent idea," said the apparent Phantom of the Opera.  "Hopefully he'll recover before the seduction scene.  He might find it rather difficult to perform in this state."  Together, they lugged him over and deposited him on the bed.  Neither of them noticed when the scarf wound around Piangi's neck caught on the Philippe's buttonhook. 

The Phantom sighed and started to walk away.  "Well, thank you for your assistance," he said to Philippe.  "I'd better leave before the fop gathers enough of his wits to call the policemen he ordered -"  He turned and started to go.

"Philippe told me not to go anywhere," protested Raoul.  "So I can't call the policemen."  Nobody paid much attention to him.

"That fop does happen to be my brother," said Philippe mildly.  He tried to follow, but could only take a few steps before something pulled him back.  He turned around to see what was happening – and his eyes met a horrible sight.  

Piangi was dead, accidentally strangled by his own scarf.

"Oh, dear," said the Phantom.  "They're going to blame me for this one too, I suppose."

"Hold _on _a minute, Raoul."  Philippe turned to the Phantom.  "Shouldn't we tell someone he's dead?  I mean, he's the lead in the show, and -"

The Phantom drew himself up to his full height.  "There is no way," he proclaimed, "that we're interrupting _my _opera, just because some tenor had the bad taste to die in the middle of it."

"The show must go on!" cried Raoul, caught up in the excitement.  He saw his brother's warning look, and blushed.  "Sorry."

"Well, it's a little hard to perform Don Juan without a Don Juan," said Philippe, in some exasperation.  "And Raoul, you've done quite enough goings-on for one day, thank you."

As far as Philippe could tell, the Phantom looked worried.  "His cue's in a few seconds – oh, just hand me that mask there, and I'll go on instead.  You'll take care of the body like a good fellow, won't you?"  

Philippe started to protest, but the Phantom of the Opera had already gone onstage.


	5. In Which All Hell Breaks Loose

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me.  If I was going to get metaphysical, I'd say they belong to themselves, except they blatantly don't; they're slaves to Leroux and Webber, poor things.  Someday they'll start a rebellion. 

Thank you, gentle reviewers, one and all.  If I owned the world, it would be portioned out among you; since I don't, well, it's the thought that counts, right?

Oh, and my apologies for the relative shortness of this chapter.

            "Well, this is just dandy," said Philippe aloud, staring at the body.  "Very thoughtful of the Phantom, really.  What on earth am I supposed to do with this?"

            "We could always -"

            "We're _not_ calling in the police, Raoul.  They couldn't lift him anyways."  Philippe sighed.  "Where's Carlotta when you need her?"  

            "Onstage," said Raoul helpfully, "with the Phantom and my darling Chris-"

            "That would have been a rhetorical question, Raoul."  Philippe sighed again.  "Why me?" he demanded, of the world at large.  "Why?"

            Raoul smiled.  "Because you're sensible, Philippe," he said, "and sensible people are rare at the opera."

            Philippe stared at him.  "That actually made a great deal of sense.  Are you feeling all right?"

            His brother shrugged.  "So where should we put this body?"

            "Let's put him over in the wings," Philippe decided.  "Hopefully no one will see him there until we can deal with this in a reasonable manner."  

            It was at this point that a large roar rose from the audience.  Although Philippe didn't know it, Christine had just unmasked the Phantom.  This flustered one of the stagehands so much that he accidentally pulled open the curtain, revealing Piangi's body – held in a very incriminating manner by Philippe – to the audience.

            Philippe froze.

            There was a moment of dead silence.  Suddenly, Raoul leapt up next to Philippe and shouted, "The Phantom of the Opera has struck again!"

            The crowd did not take much encouraging.  "The Phantom of the Opera!" they twittered.  "The Phantom!"

            Philippe gave his brother a dubious look.  "Was that a quick-thinking act to save my reputation and the de Chagny name, or a petty little piece of revenge on a rival?"

            "A little of both," admitted Raoul sheepishly.  Then he added, rather petulantly, "Anyway, they would have assumed it was him no matter what anyone said.  They always do.  They blamed it on the Phantom of the Opera when the pipes were clogged last month -"

            "Actually, that _was_ his fault," remarked the thin, black-clad woman who materialized next to them.  "That was the day he accidentally dropped his mask in the toilet."

            "Well, that was information I desperately needed," said Philippe wearily.

            "Raoul."  The black-clad woman, whom Philippe now recognized as being the same one he had seen in the halls earlier that day, turned now to the younger de Chagny brother.  "Christine needs you."

            Philippe had had enough.  "No, she doesn't," he snapped, stepping in front of Raoul.  "My brother has gotten into quite enough trouble for one day.  Right now, he's going to go home with me, throw out all the pink outfits he bought, and apologize to the butler for helping to ruin his suit.  I'm sure whatever Christine needs can wait until tomorrow."

            "She's been kidnapped by -"  The black-clad woman lowered her voice mysteriously.  "The Phantom of the Opera . . ."

            "Fine," said Philippe.  "Since he never leaves the Opera House, I'm sure neither he nor Christine is going to go anywhere in the next twenty-four hours.  Raoul, on the other hand, is going home.  He can rescue her first thing in the morning, how does that sound?"

            The woman blinked at him.  "I don't think – where'd he go?"

            Raoul waved cheerily from a box overhead.  "This friendly Persian fellow said he'd lead me to the basement," he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth in order to be heard over the screams of Carlotta, who was not taking Piangi's death at all well.  "I should be back just as soon as I've defeated him, all right?  Philippe, don't wait up – I can take a cab home!" 

            "Raoul, you get back here -" shouted Philippe, but it was too late; his brother was gone.  Philippe sighed, and turned to the woman, who looked stunned.

            "But I was going to show him the way -" she murmured.

            "All right," said Philippe, making a brisk decision.  "How does this sound?  Why don't you show _me _the way, and _I'll_ rescue the silly chit before Raoul needs to get involved."

            The woman eyed him dubiously.  "How exactly do you expect to do that?"

            "How does Raoul expect to do it?" countered Philippe.  "At least I can perhaps talk sense into him, which is more than Raoul will do.  Anyways, the Phantom owes me for leaving me with that dead body on my hands while he went gallivanting off to play at acting."  He glared at Piangi, who had certainly been more trouble than he was worth.  

            "Well," said the woman, grudgingly, "all right.  Just make sure you're out of the way before the angry mob gets there, that's all I'm saying."

            "I'll certainly keep that in mind," said Philippe, and followed the woman in black to the secret entrance to the Phantom's lair.


	6. The Fall of the Last Pillar of Sanity

Disclaimer: Philippe is neglected.  So no one will object if I take him, right?  Right?  Oh, fine – he does not belong officially to me.  But his heart is mine!         

"All right," said the woman in black.  Five minutes later, she and Philippe were standing on the shores of the hidden underground lake where the Phantom resided.  "I can go no further."

"Neither can I," Philippe pointed out, "without a boat."  

"There _is _a boat," said the woman, rolling her eyes, and disappeared back into the darkness of the underground.

"Oh," said Philippe, feeling sheepish, and stepped into the small boat.  He was prepared to row, but the boat immediately started to propel itself across the lake in a vaguely mystic fashion.

"Well, this is convenient," said Philippe, lowering himself down on the seat with a sigh.  There was a loud crack.  Philippe winced and rose again, looking down.  Apparently he'd broken the Phantom's – 

"Fishing rod?" he said aloud.  Well, he supposed it made sense – men were men the world over, and there were very few men he'd ever met who didn't enjoy some fishing now and then.

"All right, you'll _pay _for that," said a mysterious voice out of the darkness.  "In cash, preferably.  That was state-of-the-art."

Philippe was getting very sick of mysterious voices.  "If that's the Phantom of the Opera," he called out, "then you already owe me for leaving me with the tenor's body.  So we're even."

"But you came down in order to defeat me," the Phantom pointed out.  Underneath, Philippe felt the boat hit the far shore and slide to a halt.  Then it started to move out again; he got out hastily, before he could be carried all the way back, and tripped over his own shoe.  The Phantom snickered.

"Oh, shut up," said Philippe wearily, "and use your head for a minute, will you?  Honestly, you're as bad as Raoul.  If I wanted to kill you, I'd have waited for the angry mob, wouldn't I?   I'm just here to get my brother back.  You can keep Christine for all I care – as a matter of fact, please do."

The Phantom's voice sounded quite puzzled.  "You don't want to rescue Christine?"

"Why on earth should I care about Christine?  Obsessively operatic showgirls with father fixations really aren't my cup of tea, thanks all the same.  You have to understand – with the echoes in the de Chagny manor, the slightest noise is magnified tenfold."  Philippe shuddered expressively.  "It's hard enough getting work done with Raoul around randomly singing, and _he's _a tenor. I dread to think what will happen with a soprano on the loose – the only thing worse would be if Raoul fell in love with Carlotta."

"I happen to like Christine's singing," said the Phantom, rather huffily.

That, thought Philippe, was the understatement of the century.  "Fine," he said aloud.  "Each to his own.  I just don't want her _living _with me."

The Phantom sighed and, finally, stepped out into the open.  Philippe relaxed slightly.  "Well, as it happens, you're already too late."

Philippe stiffened.  "What do you mean?"

"I mean you arrived a little behind schedule, lordling; I already let Christine go with Raoul, so it looks like you're going to be stuck with her."

Philippe cursed briefly and creatively.  There were advantages to having a brother who was a sailor; even Raoul couldn't help picking a few things up.

"Oh, by the way," added the Phantom casually, "I told your brother you were dead.  I hope you don't mind?"

Philippe stopped cursing and stared at the Phantom.  "Why on earth would you do that?"

"It seemed to upset him, and I was rather trying to upset him at the time."  The Phantom shrugged.  "I didn't think it would matter much – I was expecting him to be dead soon in any case."

"Well, you could have been more considerate," said Philippe crossly.  "Now he's probably gone home and started throwing away all the family money on an elaborate funeral ceremony that's completely pointless and that we can't afford anyway, and – oh, God, he's going to buy me a pink casket, I can tell -"

"Well, you'd better run along and tell him not to," said the Phantom, with a sigh.  "The angry mob's going to be here any minute to kill me, in any case."

Philippe blinked.  "And you're just going to let them?"

"Why not?  Christine's gone; what else have I got to live for?"  The Phantom sighed again.  "They think I'm a monster up there; my operatic career's finished before it's even begun, thanks to the entire Piangi business . . ."

"Yes, and I've still got a score to settle with you about that," said Philippe, "but that's besides the point.  You're being ridiculous in true operatic style.  There are dozens of things you can do besides die.  Raoul's been talking about your tortured genius for ages – I've always wondered why you didn't go into law school, actually."

The Phantom's brow furrowed.  "Law school?"

"Yes, of course!"  Philippe was beginning to warm to his subject.  "I trained as a lawyer before our father died; it's always been sort of a family tradition, ever since Grandfather Marius' time.  Of course, I had to give it all up when I inherited the de Chagny estate, but I can tell you now, it's a wonderful career.  I often wish I could go back -"

"Wait a minute – I just had a flash of that tortured genius," the Phantom interrupted. "You needn't take up the reins of the de Chagny estate again, you know.  Raoul and Christine think you're dead – there's no reason you _couldn't _go back to law -"  He grinned.  "You could come with me!  We could set up as a pair of traveling lawyers, making our living from town to town throughout Europe -"

Philippe was tempted to dismiss the plan as mad.  Slowly, however, with each new word, he found himself considering it more and more in earnest.  Did he really want to return to mastery of the de Chagny estates?  To accounts and an irate butler, to cooing servants and a rather frighteningly silly brother and a soprano echoing through the ancient halls for the rest of his life?  He winced.  Surely that was a fate worse than death.  And, after all, why shouldn't he go with the Phantom?  He had no personal enmity against him; in fact, they had an interest in common, in that neither of them particularly wanted to see Christine with Raoul . . .

"But you must decide now," continued the Phantom earnestly.  "Don't you hear the angry mob?"

And, indeed, faint strains of "Death to the Phantom!" and "Revenge for Piangi!", as well as a rather incongruous "I want my dress back, you bastard!" were drifting across the underground lake.

Philippe quirked an eyebrow.  "I thought my brother was the only one around here who wore other people's dresses."

"Oh," said the Phantom, slightly embarrassed, "that would be Meg Giry; I . . . erm . . . borrowed hers to make my costume for the masquerade."  Hastily, he added, "but that's besides the point.  Will you come with me and live the life of a traveling lawyer, free from worry and hardship and sopranos whose names begin with C?"

For once in his life, Philippe threw caution to the winds.  After all, what, really, did he have to lose?  

He smiled at the Phantom.  "I think," he said, "that this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."


End file.
